Galloglass: Book Three The Fall of Acre

Prologue

The Monastery of Bangor / Ireland

1328

Cathal, my friend and confessor, has returned. He is the abbot of this dreary place, and I have known him most of my life. Another draught of uisce beatha laced with the tears of the poppy puts me at ease and deadens the pain. They tell me I am dying. If so, I have been doing so for the better part of a year and still I remain. My wife Aoife is here at my side, and she indulges me. And so she should, as I have been good to her. I have rewarded her loyalty. My death will leave her with land and wealth. She is still a handsome woman, and she will not lack for suitors, though I must confess I hope she keeps the bastards hanging.

My sons have been told of my fate, and even now they are on their way to Bangor to receive their inheritance. There are four of them, mothered by three different women. I never was a saint, but unlike my father, I have never denied my bastards nor thought to slight them. I’ve loved my children as I have loved my women, freely and without reservation. It is a weakness of mine, or so I have been told. Hopefully they will behave, and there will be no blades drawn, but they are the seeds of my loins, and they have the fire that once coursed through my veins, so there are no guarantees when Clann ni Ronan gather. What a sight that will be when they ride into this monastery like wolves jumping a fold! I only hope I am still here to see it.

When last I spoke, the scribes recorded the events that led to the disastrous fall of Acre. There was great irony in the arrogance and folly of a decision based on religion. The Commune of Acre refused to dispense justice and hand those guilty of riot and murder over to the sultan for punishment because the guilty were Christians. The deaths of hundreds of Muslims and Jews and even a number of Syrian Christians did not equal the deaths of a half dozen men. It was madness, particularly when the Orders, not just the Templars but the Hospitallers and the Teutonic Knights, those religious houses dedicated to the preservation of the kingdom, were all in favor of such a move.

Such was not to be. The guilty remained within Acre, and across Qalawun’s empire, mullahs preached for our destruction. The sultan’s engineers continued to build machines of war, and food and weapons continued to be stockpiled on his orders. The citizens of Acre trundled on with their daily lives, oblivious to the coming storm. The Genoese, the Venetians, the Pisans traded, made money and war, and acted as though Acre would go on forever. What fools they all were.

Sit back and listen as I tell of those last months and what happened when the armies of the sultan descended upon us. There was great heroism and unbelievable cowardice displayed during the siege. Those who say the Orders did not do their part are fools. They were not there. They did not see wave after wave of Saracen fall upon us. They did not watch the brethren fight to the last man, oft times bearing horrendous wounds so that others could live. They did not wade through the streets of Acre ankle deep in blood or smell the eviscerated bodies of thousands. They didn’t watch men covered in naphtha burn like living torches or see clouds of arrows float across the sky like some malevolent hail storm. I did. I was there. Hear my tale and judge for yourself.

Acre

August / September 1290

The Military Orders put men into the streets to stop the rioting. Master de Beaujeu sent word to all of the grandmasters as soon as he learned of the unrest and asked for their help in quelling the disorder in the city, which took two days. All three of the larger Orders responded by putting their garrisons into the streets armed with truncheons and staves. Two days of bashing skulls and threatening their commanders with excommunication eventually quelled the unrest. Undoubtedly, our quick response saved many lives; however, the damage had been done. The Muslim and Jewish population of Acre had been attacked and abused, and they quickly sought redress. Unfortunately, the Commune of Acre, comprised of the leading merchant families of the city along with representatives of the Cypriot aristocracy, was reluctant to hold Christians accountable for the deaths of Muslims and Jews.

During the third week of August, there was a meeting between the grandmasters of the three leading military orders and the commune’s leaders at the Court of the Chain near the inner harbor. The court was used to adjudicate maritime disputes between various merchant groups in the city and housed a hall large enough to accommodate all of the factions affected by the riots.

Before the meeting of the commune took place, Grand Master de Beaujeu, Brother Himbert Blanke, my mentor and personal aid to de Beaujeu, and Marshal Peter de Severy met with me in the master’s quarters. When I entered, the three men went silent, and I knew from experience that something of great import was afoot.

Ronan, said the master without preamble, are you aware of the situation we have been thrust into as a result of the riots?

I looked to Himbert, but his face was a mask. Marshal de Severy, as was his wont, simply looked bored. I shrugged. I know that the Muslim Imam of Acre has approached the Commune for restitution and was rebuked.

Indeed. Our sources have informed us that the Imam plans on taking his case to Cairo. If that is so, Sultan Qalawun will have a perfect excuse to break the truce.

What would my lord have me do?

It was Himbert’s turn to speak. He wasted no time but came directly to the point. Ronan we need your ‘talents.’ We cannot openly strike at the condottieri. To do so could ignite the already fragile peace into a civil war. The condottieri were Italian mercenaries sent by the Pope in the misguided belief that they would be of some help in mounting another Crusade. Leaderless, they were a constant problem, and it was they who had started the riot that put us in this situation. The Genoese, Himbert continued, would love to destabilize the political situation here. We all know Avito Fortunato, as their leader, is a continual source of strife. Were it not for your spy within his circle, we would be in an even more difficult situation than we already face.

I suggested we send you to pull his teeth, smiled de Severy, finally.

I toyed with the handle of my dagger and asked, Do you want me to kill him?

Himbert shook his head. Not yet. Fortunato is still too valuable. No, we want you to kill Salvatore de Castello.

Take his head, the other Italians will fall in line, said Master de Beaujeu, pointedly.

They will expect such a move, I responded.

De Castello is arrogant; he believes in Fortunato’s patronage. He assumes that he is safe in the midst of his army, replied Master de Beaujeu. I know better.

And when I have completed my task?

You need to send a message to Fortunato as well. I will leave the manner and the delivery to your discretion, said de Beaujeu.

I bowed my head. As you command, lord.

Since coming to the Levant, I had risen rapidly within the Order. I had been knighted by de Beaujeu himself on the field of battle and was eventually promoted to Turcopole and personal bodyguard to the master. His trust in me was implicit. This type of assignment was not unusual.

The next day I had Castello’s movements tracked. It was not difficult. My Turcopoles were familiar with the city and could pass as citizens without arousing suspicion. They had no problem discovering his whereabouts and watched Castello’s every move. There was pressure to do this quickly, so I struck the following week, a day before Master de Beaujeu was to meet with the Commune.

There was no moon that night. Castello had made his headquarters in the Genoese Quarter on the upper floor of an abandoned warehouse not far from the Hospitallers’ citadel. To attack him there would have been suicidal. However, he was quite enamored of a Circassian prostitute who worked in one of the finest brothels in Acre. The brothel was located in Montmusard, Acre’s walled suburb, near the ocean. I was told the Circassian was quite expensive, which made me wonder. Where was Castello getting the money for such pursuits? Of course, the answer to that question was simple—Fortunato. As the leader of the Genoese merchants of Acre, he was wealthy beyond most people’s comprehension.

For this kind of work, I wore my hauberk and gambeson covered by a dark surcoat and a hooded cloak. Armed with dagger and longsword, nothing about my clothing or appearance suggested I was a Templar. I did not wear any leg armor either, choosing instead to clothe myself in soft cotton pants and leather shoes for ease of movement. My two companions dressed in a similar fashion and aroused no suspicion when we slipped away from the citadel on foot.

Conrad Falk and Eoughan Mac Rauri accompanied me to within a block of the brothel. Conrad was a big German Templar I had met in Venice. A master with the longsword, he had become a close companion and training partner. Eoughan Mac Rauri was a distant cousin I had pulled out of a tavern brawl here in Acre and had made my squire. Both men were extremely large, violent, and loyal. We ducked into the shadows and took up a position in an alley that gave us a view of the entrance. Castello always took five of his men along anywhere he went. One he left at the entrance to the brothel while the others went inside. I watched as the man settled into the shadows near the door.

I didn’t want witnesses. If we attacked the condottieri inside the brothel, there would be too much noise, too many bystanders, and too many questions. The last thing I needed was an irate brothel owner screaming because I killed his clients. Better to wait until they were sated with sex and wine.

We settled in and watched. A couple of hours passed, and then one of the others came and relieved the guard at the door. Two hours after that, Castello and his men left. Rather than strike due south toward the Genoese Quarter, they turned east. I guessed that they were making for the Inn of Two Sisters and their master, Fortunato.

Come, I said, as we slipped out of the alley and took a street that paralleled their route. We jogged ahead, avoiding several groups of late night roisterers who left us be, and made for an alley I knew Castello would have to pass if he and his men kept their same course.

We waited for what seemed an eternity. I was thinking that I had outsmarted myself, and they had turned off when I heard the sound of drunken laughter drift toward us.

When they are to our front, we strike, I said. Pick your man now and leave Castello to me.

Conrad and Eoughan nodded. Each knew his business and quietly drew his weapon. I was surprised Eoughan had not brought his Danish axe until I saw him unsheathe his dagger and draw a short hafted, hand axe from his belt. Obviously he had done this kind of fighting before. Coming from the Isles where clan raids were common, I should have known better and felt foolish.

The condottieri were drunk and took their time moving down the street. Apparently they did not sense any trouble. They were stupid as two of them carried torches, destroying their night vision. We were out of the alley and upon them before they knew we were there.

Eoughan suddenly appeared before the first man holding a torch and buried his axe in the man’s forehead. Chaos ensued. Conrad came up from behind and hacked down the last man in their group. His longsword fell from left to right and cut the condottieri from shoulder to spine. The man was dead before his face hit the hard packed dirt of the street.

One of Castello’s men must have seen movement because he turned outward and drew his sword as I flew at him from out of the dark. Our blades clashed together in a bind. As he pushed up, I dropped my point, and he pushed harder, hoping to avoid being stuck in the throat. I rotated my wrists and struck the side of his head. The sword caught the condottieri in the temple and dropped him like a hammered ox. By then both Conrad and Eoughan had killed the other two guards as well.

To give him his due, Castello was not a coward. He pulled his sword and came at me, all fury and intent. His first cut ripped upward from low to high, left to right. I stepped back as the blade hissed past my face and then leapt forward as Castello reversed his cut and hammered his blade down toward my head. The oncoming blade was deflected with a point down parry, and then I wound my own sword around his blade and struck at the center of his head. He just managed to get the flat of his blade up, and so I stepped off line to my right, reversed my cut and struck him in the neck. His eyes widened in surprise as he sank to his knees, his throat in ruin. I stepped in and cut again, using the power of my hips and decapitated him.

By then I could hear cries coming from the far end of the street for the watch. I calmly cleaned my blade on Castello’s cloak and then used it to bundle up his head. Zere are men coming. I hear zem crying for help, said Conrad while pointing in their direction.

I tossed the bundle to Eoughan. Hold this. We have a delivery to make.

The big islander grinned at me, "The seanachies say the old ones used to hunt heads as well."

Aye, definitely makes an impression, I responded with a grin.

Vee need to go, urged Conrad, not impressed with our discussion.

The three of us darted back into the alley and then worked our way south through the streets of Montmusard, always keeping the ocean on our right. We stayed in the shadows and avoided contact with other groups. In this way, we managed to get close to the dry moat that divided the old city from Montmusard. Rather than trying to slip through the only open gate separating the two halves of Acre, I turned toward the ocean and followed the moat until it opened on the coast. A round tower on the inner wall jutted into the sea at this point, blocking access to the inner city.

I looked up but could discern no guards. Grateful for small things, I turned and went up the coast roughly a hundred yards and stopped. There, hidden among the rocks, was a canvas covered boat I had found months before. With the help of my companions, we uncovered it and pushed it out to sea. It had oars and a small sail, which we kept stowed as we did not need it. The surf was calm, and so within moments, Eoughan and I took the oars and began to row.

Being from the western isles, we were both familiar with small craft, and it took us little time to row down the coast and reach the seaward postern of the Templar citadel. The fortress had its own small harbor for just this kind of work. It was then close to dawn, so I sent Eoughan and Conrad on to Prime whilst I went to the kitchens.

As I entered, I was met by Fat Bertrand, a sergeant-brother of the Order. But I doubt he had ever raised anything more than a ladle in anger. Why he was called ‘fat’ I never knew because Bertrand was tall and quite skinny. Dressed in the brown habit of a sergeant, he looked like a rather long, ragged scarecrow. He even had a shock of corn colored hair that poked out beneath the hood of his robe because he wore his cowl up most of the time, even in the heat of the kitchens. He saw me coming and tried to shoo me away.

Bertrand, I need your help, I said.

What you mean is you want food. You know I can give you nothing until just before Terce.

I patted the bundled cloak in my hand and said, What I need is a small cask half full of the worst wine we have.

Whatever for? And why should I give you anything?

Because Master de Beaujeu is intent on sending someone a gift.

A gift? he asked suspiciously. What kind of gift?

I half unwrapped Castello’s severed head to reveal his face. His teeth were exposed in a permanent grimace. One that someone will never forget, I said.

Fat Bertrand’s face paled, and he pushed past me to escape the kitchen’s heat. I heard him retch while I covered the head. Moments later, he returned, wiping his mouth. You bastard.

I grinned at him. Truly, I am a bastard. Besides, you asked.

The cook thought better of continuing the argument. Instead, Bertrand rounded up one of the nearby scullions and ordered him to the cellars where the wine was stored. The servant returned within minutes and handed a small, open ended cask to Bertrand who then gave it to me. It’s almost vinegar. We use it to clean with. It should be perfect for what you need.

I nodded, unwrapped the head, and then carefully dropped it into the cask. Lid? I asked.

The scullion handed me a lid that I fitted into place and then pounded down with the pommel of my dagger. Satisfied the cask was sealed, I replaced my dagger and snatched a piece of hard cheese from a nearby cutting board. I grinned at Fat Bertrand and then left, the cask tucked under my arm.

The chapel was full when I arrived for Prime. I entered into the nave and stood in the back. The few sergeant brothers nearby gave my cask a cursory look, then saw it was me and looked away. As usual, I let my mind wander and went through the service by rote. If you are shocked, you shouldn’t be. I was never truly a monk. However, I do remember the psalm our priest delivered. It was Psalm Eighteen, verses thirty-seven through thirty-nine, and it was the first time I had heard it. I have remembered it ever since. I have pursued mine enemies and overtaken them: neither did I turn again till they were consumed. I have wounded them that they were unable to rise: they are fallen under my feet. For Thou hast girded me with strength unto battle: Thou hast subdued under me those that rose up against me. I looked at the cask between my feet and felt that it was no coincidence Castello was there.

When Lauds ended, I left the chapel and waited for Conrad and Eoughan to come out and join me. Himbert found me there and asked about Castello.

He will be unable to direct anymore riots, brother.

Himbert frowned. You have a penchant for taking heads. He pointed to the cask. Is that what I think it is?

Of course, I answered.

Was that really necessary?

Yes, I responded laconically.

Himbert shook his head and continued. A bird arrived in the night from Cyprus. The Podesta of Genoa has agreed to our terms. You will take that head to Fortunato and inform him Master de Beaujeu expects no further trouble. Genoa will not obstruct the Temple in the coming political struggle with the Commune of Acre.

He will not be happy.

Inform him that the information you provided him for Admiral Doria concerning the Venetians in the Bosporus proved disastrous. It cost them a fleet, and they want answers. That should prove satisfying.

I had to laugh; the thought of Fortunato betrayed was quite appealing. He would be a dangerous enemy if we left him alive, and I said so. Himbert simply shook his head. You cannot solve everything by slaughter, Ronan.

If he’s dead, I have no fear of a dagger in the night.

For now, he will be more concerned about the fate of his own head when he is recalled to Genoa.

I knew how devious and smart Fortunato was. I had no doubt he would land on his feet. My only concern was that when he did, it would not be me whose neck he landed on.

Turn out your Turcopoles and ride to the Two Sisters in force. Fortunato must be neutralized. Tonight we meet with the Commune at the Court of the Chain to decide how we handle the sultan’s response to the riot.

I bowed my head to Himbert, sent Conrad to rouse the Turcopoles, and took Eoughan with me to the stables. An hour later we left the citadel with a force of fifty men. Thirty minutes after that, having pushed our way through the crowded streets of the old city and then on through the Hospitaller Gate, we made our way into Montmusard. The street that ran beside the dry moat and separated the two sections of Acre reeked in the summer heat of human waste and decay. Many of the sewers from the old city emptied into the moat, hence the disgusting odor.

We rode quickly through clouds of black flies and gnats. The streets in Montmusard were wider and allowed us to move rapidly as we turned west and followed a road that paralleled the wall and led us to the Two Sisters.

One of Fortunato’s men must have seen us coming from the terrace on the roof of the inn. As we rode into the courtyard, we were greeted by several crossbowmen who quickly decided they were outnumbered and put down their weapons.

I dismounted and said to Conrad, loud enough for all to hear, If any one of them so much as moves a finger toward their weapons, kill them all.

The big German smiled, drew his longsword, and replied, As my lord commands.

I motioned for Eoughan to dismount and said, Come and bring the cask.

The big Isleman slid off his horse and untied the small barrel from behind his saddle. We walked to the side of the inn and climbed the stairs that led to the roof and the rooms above.

Fortunato and five of his men-at-arms were waiting for us on the terrace. They were all armed and armored with their weapons drawn. I laughed, my voice fairly dripping with disdain. If I were here to kill you, Avito, I said while waving my hand at the men before me, I’d have slit their throats in the middle of the night and nailed you to your bed with a dagger.

Coward, he snarled.

You know better. I took the cask from Eoughan and handed it to the nearest soldier. Here, it is a message from Master de Beaujeu.

The man-at-arms looked to his master who nodded for him to take the cask. The Temple is sending me wine? he snarled.

I would be remiss if I did not have you open it, I replied.

Fortunato took the cask and shook it. He could tell by its weight and the sound it made that something was not right. He set it down on a nearby table and had one of his men come and pry off the lid, all the while staring at me with hatred etched across the hard planes of his face.

Fine vintage, that, I smiled.

The man-at-arms saw the hair floating on the top of the wine and recoiled in horror.

What is it? asked Fortunato, seeing the look on the man’s face. Get it out, he hissed.

The man-at-arms reached into the cask, pulled out Castello’s head, and retched. Fortunato turned to me, his face white with anger. And just what is it that Master de Beaujeu would have me know?

There will be no more riots. The Italian mercenaries will abide by the law or suffer execution, or your head will be in a cask of its own on its way back to Genoa.

And? he grated. Your look tells me there is more.

I admit, I was arrogant, insufferable, but then I was doing everything I could to provoke him so that I would have an excuse to kill him and not disobey my orders. And de Beaujeu wanted you to know that the Podesta is requesting you return to Genoa at once. It seems that the information you gave Admiral Doria about the Venetians in the Bosporus has cost Genoa a fleet, I grinned.

Fortunato fairly exploded. You will burn once the Inquisition hears of your indiscretions, MacAlasdair. I shall make it a point to be the one who lights the flame. He was referring, of course, to my not so very monk like behavior, often performed as a necessary and admittedly delightful part of my duties as the master’s bodyguard.

I think not. Your man in Rome has had an accident. Something about being crushed by a wine cart. At least, that’s the word we received last week.

Fortunato went still, a great vein throbbing on the side of his temple. I’ll kill you myself, he hissed.

You are welcome to try, I replied with a grin. We can settle this down in the courtyard, if you would care to cross swords, signor. I have been repeatedly told I am not much of a monk. Killing a fellow Christian is probably the least of my sins, and it is certainly one I seem to be good at. I can assure you my men will not interfere. They are quite used to my indiscretions.

Fortunato stood there and clenched his fists in rage, the veins along the side of his neck standing out like a cable. I goaded him, hoping he would snap. No? I asked. A pity, signor. Who is the coward now?

Fortunato ground his teeth. With the help of Himbert and the Templar spy network, I had humiliated and outfoxed him. Unfortunately, I had to leave him alive. Something I feared would come back to haunt me.

I inclined my head in a mock salute and then took my leave. As my men and I took the stairs down to the courtyard, we could hear strangled cries of rage and the splintering of furniture.

Two

Acre September 1290

I spent the next two days with my woman, Magdalena de Zati. I had met her in Cyprus in the house of Admiral Orlando Ascheri and his partner Oberto Doria. Unknown to the Genoese, she was a Templar spy. Initially the Genoese had encouraged our liaison, not realizing that we were truly attracted to each other. What began as a night of fun had developed into a love affair of some note. Since then, she had come to Acre at the behest of the Genoese to gain information from me. I was afraid that Fortunato would realize the truth, and I was fearful of his vengeful inclinations. I did not want to let her out of my sight.

Ronan, I will be fine, she said one night as she climbed into my lap and straddled me. She could be very persuasive, and now was one of those moments. I could feel her mound as she slowly ground herself against me.

I do not trust Fortunato. He will want revenge. What better way to strike at me than through you?

She undid my breeks and then eased herself down on my manhood. Both of us gasped at the sheer pleasure of it, and I knew there would be a price to pay. God never gives but that he takes away. You worry too much. Do not forget I am here at the behest of Oberto Doria. Fortunato will do nothing to incur his wrath, she murmured as she rocked in my lap.

I could feel her tensing as she buried her face in my neck. Perhaps she was right, I thought as I lost myself in the moment.

Later, I lay with her head on my chest and reflected on my good fortune. Magdalena was not just beautiful; she was intelligent, and her observations of the political climate of the city were brilliant. She had seen much of the inner workings of Genoese power and, in many ways, was far more worldly than I. I never tired of our conversations, just as I never tired of her body. Those two days were among the few times we had spent more than a few hurried hours together, and I marveled at how completely at peace I was with her at my side.

Our time together could not last. Events moved rapidly. Several days after my visit to Fortunato, representatives from the Muslim community of Acre, along with farmers from the area surrounding the city, approached the Commune of Acre for justice over the murders of innocent people and restitution for the destruction from the riots. The Commune refused to hear